


Pelicans in Springtime

by KannaOphelia



Category: Blandings Castle - Wodehouse
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The desire to bring joy to spread sweetness and light in the life of an ambitious chorus girl brings the fifth Earl of Ickenham, better known as Pongo Twistleton's Uncle Fred, in yet another guise to Blandings Castle. It is up to the gallant Hon. Galahad Threepwood to help untangle the resulting complications and unite two loving hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pelicans in Springtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adina/gifts).



To the casual observer, Pongo Twistleton did not look remarkably different from any of the young bloods who habitually idled away their evenings at a musical show. A trifle more resplendent in dress than some, perhaps, with an airy grace that marked him down as one of the Twistletons, but not much else to distinguish him from any other Crumpet ever to lob a hot buttered roll at the Drone's Club. It was only on close quarters, as one looked into his eyes, that a no longer casual observer could pick out the haunted, desperate look in his eyes that marked him out as a man with an uncle.

Said uncle had, Pongo had to admit, been surprisingly well behaved lately. On receiving the telegram from his Aunt Jane that announced that the fifth Earl of Ickenham was coming to London for a once-over from his medical specialist and that it was Pongo's special duty, as his heir, to ensure that he got up to no mischief, the gilded man-high mirror at the Drones had crack'd from side to side as Pongo had despairingly noted to Catsmeat that the doom was, indeed, upon him. But Catsmeat had proved himself a real friend and suggested that Pongo take Fred to see a jolly little show for which Catsmeat happened to have tickets. Quite a treat for the old buffer, Catsmeat had said encouragingly; keep the old thing out of trouble. Pongo, while naturally resenting such dismissive talk of his uncle's infernal powers, had fallen upon the suggestion and the tickets.

To his astonishment it seemed to have worked. There had been a few iffy moments when Pongo was providing the requisite champagne and looked around to find Ickenham not, as he should have been, at his elbow. The young man had barely had time to panic, however, when Ickenham appeared, all gaiety and heartfelt admiration for the chorus. Not even a peanut had he thrown.

Now, Pongo had almost relaxed. Not such a bad old gentleman, after all, his Uncle Fred. Look at him there, drinking in the leading lady's action and looking like the sweetest silver-haired gentleman ever to handle an interval drink. After the show they would toddle off home together for a nice nightcap, and in the morning Pongo would deliver him onto the train to Hampshire and the care of Aunt Jane, none the worse for his jaunt in the capital.

When the show had ended, and been duly applauded, Pongo turned to his uncle and suggested this programme of events. To his despair, Ickenham merely dismissed the idea with a carefree laugh.

"Home? With little Maribel Perkins in the chorus? My dear boy, you jest. In any case, it's too late; I've already slipped round to the dressing room and let the little girl know we're taking her out for a late supper afterwards. You wouldn't want to blight a sweet child's hopes and dreams, my boy."

"How the devil do you know a chorus girl?" Pongo demanded.

"Such language and such suspicion do not become you, young Pongo. As it happens, when I was a mere younger son and working as a jackaroo in Australia, Maribel's mother Pearl often brought me a cooling glass of milk. As a result, I stand in an avuncular role to little Maribel, and I was delighted when you brought me here and gave me a chance of giving the child a small treat. Especially as, I gathered in the short time at my disposal, she's rather bowed down with woe right now. And here is the lady now. "

Pongo opened his mouth to tell Ickenham exactly what Aunt Jane would have to say on the subject of chorus girls and decadent late suppers. It would have been a rousingly mordant little speech, full of bitter barbs and wit. Unfortunately, it remained unsaid, because before a word was said, he spied Maribel Perkins advancing in her best evening dress and his mouth remained open.

"Uncle Fred!" Maribel said, in a voice that sounded rather like it would feel if you could make velvet from cream. "Come here and give me a kiss."

Ickenham obliged rather enthusiastically, giving Pongo a sour taste in his mouth. Not for the first time, he reflected that Uncle Fred really did make too free with any pretty girls around.

"It_ is_ good to see you, Maribel, and looking so well," said Ickenham. "The chap doing a convincing imitation of a goldfish is my nephew Reginald, better known as Pongo. Don't mind him, he's out past his bedtime and yearning for his teddy and snuggly blanket. Let us away to this rather charming little spot I know, and you can tell your Uncle Fred all your troubles."

They were soon ensconced in a charming little eatery, while Maribel plaintively nibbled on a breadstick and confided her problems.

"You see, it's just this: I do so want a swimming pool of my own." Maribel's hyacinth blue eyes welled up with tears, making Pongo ache to put an arm around her and comfort her.

"My dear girl, in April? You should catch your death. In fact, there are very few months in which a swimming pool can be seen as anything but a liability in London. Put the notion right out of your head," Ickenham said, patting her hand paternally.

"Oh, not here. In California."

"Ah. Light dawns. You have your sights set on a career in the films?" Maribel nodded. "Well, nothing could be easier. The very next time a Hollywood casting agent attends one of your shows – and I gather that they do nothing but attend little West End productions, they are becoming quite a nuisance, like fleas – all you have to do is make sure he gets a look at you, and your Hollywood career is assured."

"You're very sweet, Uncle Fred, but the thing is, if he attends one of our shows, why, he will have to see me sing and dance. I know I _look_ all right, but if he sees me on stage..." Maribel let her voice trail off.

Ickenham quite saw her point. The angels, when blessing Maribel with a statuesque figure, a cloud of silvery-gold hair and a heart-melting smile, had obviously thought it would be gilding the lily to also provide her with the ability to kick in time to music two times out of three. As for her singing voice, many a hard-pressed director had remarked that it seemed impossible that a girl with the speaking voice of Aphrodite should not be able to hit a note without a jolly good run-up of six to seven notes beforehand. While no one could deny that Maribel was an ornament to any chorus line, her forte was certainly looking attractive in the spotlight, rather than giving a rousing tap and tune.

"I can quite see that you would benefit from a chance to fascinate a Hollywood scion before he saw you perform," Ickenham acknowledged. "We must put our heads together and find a way to arrange it, hmm? The problem is, where does one find these Hollywood casting agents, if not in the audience of spritely little musicals?"

"That's just the beastly thing," Maribel said. "Sue Fish, who was in the chorus line back when she was Sue Brown, was around just the other day, saying that Carey Zizzbaum, the big Hollywood producer from Perfecto-Zizzbaum, you know , is going to stay at her husband's family place. All terribly hush-hush, you know how secretive Goldstein is about his true identity, but I rather gathered that he's interested in buying the rights to Ronnie's Uncle Galahad's memoirs. And he'll be down there, and I'm all up here in London..." She fought back sobs, unsuccessfully.

"Nothing easier! Just ask young Sue to invite you round the place, and all is done and dusted."

"Oh, but you don't know the worst of it. You see, Sue brought a pet with her, the most dreadful little Pekingese, and I just happened to mention to Ruby that it looked like what you'd get if an undersized lion mated with a dust cart. And Sue h-heard me!" Maribel dissolved into bitter weeping.

Ickenham was silent a moment, his face grave. Too well he knew that of all the terrible sins a young lady could commit, scoffing at a treasured Pekingese was the worst. His late aunt had looked at policemen through lorgnettes for less. Still, he remembered a day in which he had been beaten down by the sun and a particularly obstinate steer, and young Pearl had given him a spiced cookie, and looking on Pearl's erring daughter, he found it in his heart to forgive her grave error.

"That's all in the past, my dear," he said kindly. "We must simply find another way to get you to Blandings Castle, as young Ronnie Fish's family seat is called."

"You know these people?" Maribel asked, hope dawning in her young and innocent heart.

"Very well, indeed. The Earl of Emsworth is an old pal. Went to school together."

"Then you can ask them to invite me?"

Ickenham shook his head. "I'm afraid not, young Maribel. Blandings Castle is his but in name; his sister Constance rules the roost, and while a fine woman, the chances of a chorus girl arriving on her widowed brother's invitation and not being ejected with a flea in her comely ear are indeed remote. Do not despair, however. It so happens that young Pongo here's sister is engaged to be married to the son on the Duke of Dunstable, who is Connie's oldest and dearest friend. Home and pack your bags, young woman; I will inform Valerie that she must ring up her future father-in-law and instruct him to have Connie have the best bedroom made up for her dear school friend Dorothea Uppham, who has had a spell of bad health requiring a term of residence in the countryside. Connie will be only too pleased to oblige."

"But wouldn't it be more natural for me to go stay at this Duke's place?" Mirabel asked.

"Not a jot. What you are failing to take into account, my dear, is Valerie's natural feelings about her impressionable fiancée being exposed too intimately to a girl as charming as yourself. No, Blandings is a far more natural place for her to send you."

Pongo, although his heart was yearning to be laid at the feet of this new angel, felt that the likelihood was that Valerie would laugh scornfully and disdain acquaintance, and said so. His sister, he knew from experience, was a young lady of strong personality and equally strong views on young persons who, if undeniably charming, were also undeniably outsiders.

Ickenham beamed on him. "But, my boy, what you are not taking into account is that I have it on good authority that, Horace Davenport being slightly indisposed with a cold in the head and Valerie's girlish heart crying out for fancy dress balls, she attended a riot of that kind in the company of Monty Bodkin. The poor, trusting Horace thought she was home alone in the company of her embroidery, and not indulging in positively Roman decadence with a lady killer like Bodkin. If I should happen to mention that I am in possession of these facts – well, I will leave the unpleasant ramifications. I will telephone her forthwith. Now, young Mirabel, it is time to pop along home and perfect the tones of an impoverished girl of good family sent away to the countryside for her health. You were always an excellent mimic as a child, as I recall."

Mirabel smiled sweetly at him and said, in impeccable cut-glass tones, "I am so very grateful, Uncle Fred. I will remember you from Hollywood."

Ickenham patted her hand. "I shall expect a signed photograph. Now, tinkerty-tonk."

The vision of beauty drifted from the room, and Ickenham turned to his nephew.

"Now, Pongo, I did not wish to question you indelicately in front of that innocent child of the Antipodes, but as a doting uncle I recognise that slack-jawed expression from long experience. What is the meaning of that love-light in your eyes? What, I ask, of Sally?"

Pongo bristled. When one is seized by the almost overwhelming desire to snatch a golden goddess up in one's arms and carry her off to the nearest Registry Office, it is disconcerting, he thought, to be reminded of an irrelevant little pipsqueak of a lady sculptress. "What of her?"

"What of her, you ask? These little infatuations were all very well when you were at liberty, but as a Twistleton, you should remember that you have a very sweet fiancée of your own."

"Oh," said Pongo, coldly. "Well, if you must know, that's all off."

"Has she seen sense and broken the engagement? My poor boy. Do not despair; these little obstacles are part of what makes the final prize worthwhile. My advice is, apologise on your knees, stuff her with chocolates until she's spherical and ply her with roses until she can't see for hay fever, and the tenderness will soon return to her limpid gaze."

"It's no use, Uncle Fred. I had a note from her only last yesterday, saying that she's very sorry, but she seems to have inadvertently become engaged to Bertram Wooster."

"Ah, so that is it. I assure you that in an engagement to Bertram Wooster there is no cause to worry. My dear Pongo, even secluded in Hampshire I can't help knowing that scores of girls get themselves engaged to this Wooster every month, and no harm done. She probably did it as a bet."

"Sally's reasons for breaking our engagement are of no interest to me," said Pongo with fine aloofness. "I shall, of course, make the customary wedding tribute, but after that she is as one dead to me."

Ickenham frowned. He was very fond of Sally. It was his considered opinion that after all the impossible girls with whom the susceptible Pongo had been enthralled he was finally on to a very good thing. It struck struck him as a very sad thing if the young lover's ways had indeed been parted. Nice girl as Mirabel was, Ickenham firmly considered Sally Painter, not Mirabel, his future niece. In any case, his fond uncle's heart quailed at the idea of his highly strung and sensitive nephew being exposed to the strains of a Hollywood life.

It struck him that, having so effectively brought sweetness and light into Mirabel's life, he had only until morning to reconcile Sally and Pongo's loving hearts. Difficult – but, for a man of his talents, not impossible.

"Well, we'll see about that soon enough," was all Ickenham said, but Pongo eyed him warily. "Now, let us retire to your humble flat, and I'll see about bringing Valerie into line."

Pongo wondered whether he should object. However, a chivalrous desire to benefit his new lady love in any way possible, even if it meant exchanging the life of a Drone clubman for that of a Hollywood drone, made him decide on the discretion that is the better part. Uncle and nephew wended their way home accordingly.

* * *

"Oh, if that's the way it stands, I'll do it, all right," Valerie said, but there was what Ickenham considered to be a distinctly nasty tone to her voice. She objected to what she, unfairly and wrongly, called blackmail.

"Valerie, my dear child, one questions your tone. You did not in so many words add "and much good may it do you", but there was a definite note of it. May I ask why?"

"Oh, it's of no matter. It's just that I've heard that Carey Goldstein is no longer expected at Blandings. The social strain was just too much. Still, I'm sure this ballet girl or whatever she is will have a pleasant visit. I hear the weather is very fine. Goodbye, Uncle Fred." The receiver clicked into place.

For once in his life, Ickenham was taken by surprise. Having committed to getting Mirabel Perkins to Hollywood, the unexpected news that he was throwing her, an innocent imposter, to the formidable wolf represented by Lady Constance Keeble without even the reward of a studio contract, shook him to the core. Even worse, it dawned on him that Mirabel, having flitted off without notice, needed to be restored to the bosom of her musical company post haste, else she lose her job. To dial the number of Mirabel's lodgings was as quick as to think, but to no avail; the young woman, he was informed, had set off that morning to Shropshire.

When informed, Pongo was similarly shaken. "Gosh!"

Ickenham nodded gravely. "Gosh, indeed. There is only one course available to available to us; we must go to Blandings ourselves and extricate the dear girl in time for the show tonight."

Pongo's face assumed the lines of tragedy his uncle unfailingly associated with him. While Blandings Castle was possibly the most beautiful spot in all of England, he had not found his stay at all peaceful; the thought of returning to a place where he had last resided as an exposed imposter in the company of a loony uncle, was not an attractive one.

"There is only one thing for it," Ickenham continued. "I must assume the identity of this Carey Zizzbaum, and you must be the actor I have selected for the role of the young Galahad, rising star Bentley Graham."

"But – why? Won't they recognise us? I mean, they must!"

"I think not," Ickenham said grandly. "Not with an American accent, a small moustache which we will procure from a certain emporium known to me, and sufficiently oiled hair. Fortunately for us, this Zizzbaum is noted for his modest shyness, so no one has the least idea what he looks like. And besides, you forget the sound effect of good breeding; to stoutly deny the identity of a guest under your roof is a terrific breach of common courtesy. Take your courage in your hands, Pongo – for the sake of Mirabel."

"For the sake of Mirabel," Pongo whispered, through ashen lips.

* * *

Alighting from the train at Market Blandings, Pongo cast his gaze nervously about, waiting any moment for a cry of hostile recognition. No one he recalled from his last visit to that lovely and ancient residence, however, lurked on the station. Instead the only occupant was a man, almost as elegant and debonair in manner as Ickenham, although very slightly younger.

"Ha! A complication," Ickenham whispered joyously in Pongo's ear. "Did I omit to tell you that the Galahad with the memoirs soon to be lit up on the silver screen is a Pelican like myself?" Pongo boggled at him. "Fortunately, my dearest Jane, in her wisdom, has decided that the London air does not suit me, so we have not crossed paths many times in recent years. Still, there is always a chance that Threepwood will hail me as an old chum." He seemed positively gleeful at the thought.

Indeed, the man Pongo presumed to be the Hon. Galahad Threepwood was heading towards them, scrutinizing them through his monocle in what Pongo felt was a dashed intent manner. He flushed to the core, waiting for exposure and disgrace.

Ickenham, however, did not wait for it to arrive. "Why, Earl Emsworth," he drawled in a deliciously Californian accent. "How charming of you to come right to the station for little old me. Zizzbaum's the name, Carey Goldstein. Put it there." He extended a hand.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Zizzbaum," Galahad said. Pongo found that he did not quite like the glimmer in the man's eye; it had too much reminiscent of the sparkle of a lunatic uncle. "But we are already well acquainted through our correspondence. I am Galahad Threepwood – please, the car is this way. "I must say," he added, as they headed for the car, "that I was surprised – delighted, of course, but surprised – to receive your wire. I was under the impression that you found yourself unable to attend."

"I thought so myself, but then I had a little dip back into your fas-cin-at-ing mem-oirs, and I just couldn't help rushing on up at once. I wanted you to meet Bentley – Mr Threepwood, Bentley Graham. Just the man to play you on the silver screen, I hope you will agree. Look at the perfect knife-edge of the trousers, the playboy glint in his eye." Pongo repressed a hollow moan. "The young Gally to the life."

"Enchanted," Pongo managed, in his best American accent.

Galahad arched an elegant eyebrow. "You turn my head, Mr. Zizzbaum, by comparing me to this male beauty queen. But what an unusual accent you have, Mr. Graham, if you don't mind my saying so. From which state do you hail?"

They settled themselves in the car, as Pongo looked beseechingly at his uncle.

"Why, the boy is from Arizona, but he's working just as hard as he can on acquiring your quaint English accent. It is my fondest hope that by the end of the stay, his accent will be indistinguishable from your own."

"Just so." Galahad started the car. "Blandings Castle is about eight miles away; I trust you will be comfortable. By the way, there is one curious point I would like to mention. I was surprised, on seeing you, that you identified yourself as Carey Zizzbaum. "The car pulled out of the picturesque street of Market Blandings, and onto the gracious upwards sweep towards the castle. "If you forgive me for saying so, you are not at all how I imagined you."

"The price of being a retiring recluse," Ickenham said expansively. Pongo glared at him. Anything less retiring than his Uncle Fred's manner, he could not think of, unless it was a herd of stampeding elephants.

"Indeed. But the aforementioned curious point is this: it is not general knowledge but I know, for certain fact, that Carey Zizzbaum is a woman. Or at least, she was the last time we lunched together."

Pongo gulped and squeezed his eyes tight. There was one excruciating heartbeat of a delay before Ickenham said, with a merry laugh, "Sometimes, there is a minor point in the best plans that is fatally overlooked."

"In my experience, too, that is so." The car began the climb upwards. "Pardon my curiosity, but why did you arrive at the station claiming to be this lady? Not to intrude, of course."

"It is a simple tale," said Ickenham in his own accents, although he had worked hard on his American movie producer accent and thought it a pity to drop it after so little use. "It is a tale, as so many are, of hopeless romance. You have, I believe a visitor at the castle, by the name of Dorothea Uphham?"

"She arrived this morning. A charming girl; she peppered me with many questions about my dear Dolly, from the way she did her hair to the way she walked. She really showed an unusual amount of interest in my reminiscences."

"I'm sure she did." Ickenham gave a sorrowful sigh. "The child has it in her heart to become a film star, and has chosen the role of Dolly as her first success. But what life, I ask you, is that for an inexperienced girl? Dear Dorothea, who does not so much as take tea with a man without a proper letter of introduction to her mother, being flung sans chaperone upon the orgies of Hollywood? But more tragically still, if she leaves for America, then my young nephew's heart will be broken. He loves Dorothea; loves her devotedly. He would brave the wilds of Africa for one little rose from her hair. He pleaded with me to bring him here under a simple ruse, for one last chance to win her heart before she leaves England's shores forever."

"I see." Galahad cast the blushing Pongo a thoughtful look. "Then, I may take it, I was not wrong, and you are my fellow Pelican and old Etonian, Frederick Thistleton?"

"Call me Uncle Fred if you like," Ickenham said expansively.

"Alas, I am hardly young enough to be your nephew. But I would be charmed if you and your young nephew – Bentley?"

"Reginald," admitted the young man, "But my friends call me Pongo."

"...Pongo, address me as Gally. While for my part, I suppose, I should address you as Carey and Bentley. I must admit," Galahad said cheerfully, as the car pulled up outside his brother's house, "I am rather looking forward to seeing you meet my sister Connie. For the second time, I gather."

Pongo choked, but judging from Ickenham's expression, that gentleman could not have wished for a greater treat.

As the men emerged from the car, they paused as a man to draw in the sweet scent of McAllister's best work in summer flowers. The crowning jewel was set when a tall, golden figure rounded the corner. Ickenham looked approvingly on her; he knew some chorus girls who, should they go to stay in a castle, would wear the most unsuitable finery and give themselves away in a trice. He had been right to have faith that a girl brought up on a cattle station wouldn't blossom out into sequins in the country. Mirabel wore a sensible skirt, equally sensible shoes and hat, and a blouse which, while flattering in cut, still would hold up among the most horsey of the local society.

Pongo, of course, was too taken with the dizzying effect of his goddess framed against the flowers to be of much use as a fashion critic. A Peri in Paradise, he was thinking to himself.

"Just the girl!" said Ickenham. "Pongo, you had better go and have a word with her before she cries 'Reginald! Frederic!' in innocent girlish pleasure, although how anyone could have pleasure in calling anyone Reginald beats me. Gally, if you would be so kind, I feel that a wash and rest are necessary before I broach your charming sister in her lair."

Pongo was only too eager to detach himself from the older gentlemen and go, hand outstretched, to his inamorata, who was already coming to them with a look of surprise in her wide blue eyes. Keen as he was to engage Mirabel's attention, he cursed Ickenham for leaving him with the unhappy task of disillusioning the hopeful Hollywood star, and feared being the one to bring tears to her once more.

It took Mirabel a moment to digest the situation. "But – why not just use the telephone?" she said at last.

The only real answer was that he was cursed with a loopy uncle, so Pongo preserved a manly silence. "I hope you're not too dreadfully disappointed to be going back to London," he said timidly, at last. He was somewhat surprised that there had been no reprise of her storm of tears after the show.

Mirabel raised her gaze, with which she had had been inspecting a yellow rose as if she was weighing up whether to risk a gardener's rage by plucking it, to Pongo's. There was a curious expression on her face.

"London? What an odd idea. I think," she went on, dreamily shredding a single petal, "I shall remain here. I have been doing some soul searching since I came here, Reginald. The sweet sunlight, the beautiful aspect, the flowers... The natural beauty here makes me understand the tawdry artificiality of my daydreams and long for something better and deeper. Perhaps Hollywood was never a truly womanly ambition. After all, what is the empty pursuit of fame compared to the price of an empty cradle?"

Pongo was confused for a moment. Then his eyes caught fire as he realised the import of her speech. Being a quick worker, like all the Twistletons, he was just about to seize Mirabel's little hand, draw her to his breast and seal the deal, when he perceived that somehow she had avoided his outstretched hand and slid past him.

"Excuse me, Pongo – I mean, Bentley. I must just go and see a man about a pig." Mirabel floated past him and down the lawn, leaving him with no recourse but to follow Ickenham and Galahad into the castle.

* * *

Pongo had quailed at the idea of meeting Lady Constance Keeble once more. His reluctance might require some explanation, as Galahad's sister Connie was a beautiful woman and a gracious hostess. However, the said Lady Constance was a dear friend of his Aunt Jane, and the two had characters much alike: the kind of woman who is doomed, from the cradle, to be an Aunt. As such, she inspired a healthy terror in a sensitive man such as Pongo.

Ickenham took the contrary view. Perhaps it was his deep fondness for his own Jane, but he looked forward to meeting Lady Constance as he might look forward to a refreshing dip into the cold water in the Turkish Baths. His cheeks were nearly as rosy with anticipation as Galahad's, as the three men entered the drawing room to partake of tea.

Their reception was icy to a degree. "Why, Lord Ickenham! What a pleasant surprise," Lady Constance said, in tones such as Saint Peter may have used if he had found Judas Iscariot on his guest list.

Ickenham had expected such a reception. On his last visit, when at last dropping the persona of Sir Roderick Glossop, noted brain specialist, he had accepted three hundred pounds from the lady in order to prevent little Polly Parker from levelling a breach of promise suit on Lord Emsworth. He feared that, since this occurrence, Lady Constance might well have discovered that the girl's affections, and indeed her betrothal, had lain elsewhere, and such details were bound to cause a little awkwardness at first. He hastened to clear it up.

"I fear you are mistaken, ma'am. Carey Zizzbaum of Perfecto-Zizzbaum Movie Studios at your service. And this is the shining star of our cinema firmament, idol of the Saturday matinee, Mr. Bentley Graham."

"Indeed?" Lady Constance swept them over with her fine grey eyes, and Pongo blenched. "You must forgive me, Mr. Graham. I am not in the habit of attending the cinema. And yet, you look strangely familiar," she went on, freezingly. "In fact, you bear a remarkable resemblance to a young man going by the name of Basil, although I later discovered that he was, in fact, an imposter. An odd coincidence, do you think?"

"It's that Hollywood style, ma'am. Handsome though our actors are, they all have a tendency to look like every other fellow you see," Ickenham said. "Look at Harold Lloyd; the man who empties my bins looks just like him. It's the soul-draining studio system – siphons all the individuality out of a man."

"Indeed? The odd thing, Mr – Zizzbaum – is that this man 'Basil' had an uncle who bore a surprising resemblance to someone not a million miles away as we speak. Frederick Twistleton, the fifth Earl of Ickenham."

There was fine stuff in the old gentleman. "Why, I have a doppelganger? You must introduce me some time. It will be a thrill for my old lady, to know I look like one of the English nobs."

Lady Constance was not amused. "I put it to you that you are, in fact, Lord Ickenham."

"Not at all, dear lady. I'm a humble producer, lower on the studio scale than any extra that stands picturesquely in a Wild West bar and cheers Bentley on in the big fisticuffs scene."

Lady Constance opened her mouth, perforce to pursue the point, but Galahad came to the rescue. "My dear Connie, are you dead to all laws of hospitality?" Galahad he demanded, scrutinising at her very hard through a black-ribboned monocle. "I bring you an old friend – and I assure you that Mr Zizzbaum is a very dear acquaintance of mine, having expressed the most flattering opinion of my memoirs." Lady Constance visibly shuddered. "And do you feed him, and water him, and give him succour? No, you accuse him of being Barmy Ickenham, a cruel jibe if ever there was one. Why, would I not recognise Ickenham, if he turned up instead of dear Carey? Did we not go to school together? Do we not belong to the same club? Connie, you forget yourself."

This outrageous speech made Lady Constance feel most unsisterly dislike of her brother Galahad at that moment. A woman of weaker spirit may have felt shaken by Galahad's certainty, but Lady Constance was a Valkyrie at heart. Besides, she had not trusted her brother's word since nursery days. It was just like him, to give her desperate, sleepless nights over the thought of his dreadful memoirs being made into some vulgar film, and then to produce an imposter out of his hat to annoy her. And annoyed she was. Her fine nostrils were drawn and white with fury.

And yet – she was not entirely an unbreachable fortress. Determined as she was to pursue of policy of no tolerance against imposters at Blandings Castle, two things held her back. The first was her warm friendship with the Countess of Ickenham. Lady Constance was loathe to offend an old ally by turfing out her husband and nephew, guests in the house of which she was chatelaine, into the ravages of an April evening.

There was also, shameful though it is to confess it, a lurking curiosity of the kind so fatal to felines. Whatever had possessed Ickenham to do this thing? Lady Constance was aware that the general opinion was that Ickenham was as goofy as a drunk monkey, but even that did not quite account for things. Was this some dreadful scheme of Galahad's? Was this some distraction while he attempted to pawn off his memoirs on the public, or was he trying to promote some entirely unsuitable romantic alliance for one of their many nieces and nephews? Perhaps, on further thought, it was better to bear up under this outrage, and telegraph Jane for advice while she did her best to discover what was afoot.

Accordingly, Lady Constance pressed her lips tightly together, and presided over tea, much like Lucrezia presiding over a little family get-together.

Pongo sunk painfully onto a sofa and attempted to answer Lady Constance's barbed little queries about Hollywood life. He noted bitterly that Ickenham and Galahad appeared to be having the time of all times, sharing Hollywood gossip as if it was a subject that consumed their whole hearts and souls, although Pongo was increasingly convinced that Galahad was as mad as his Uncle Fred and was making the whole thing up. He suspected the very existence of any memoirs.

The cheery little party was interrupted by the appearance of Mirabel, her cheeks stained faintly with rose and her eyes shining as if she had not just had her ambitions cruelly disappointed. She brought in tow with her an elderly gentleman who appeared to be a tramp she had dragged off the road in a fit of compassion, but was in fact the master of Blandings, the Earl of Emsworth.

"Why, Mr. Zizzbaum, Mr. Graham!" she said, delightedly. "How nice to see you!"

Lady Constance started, and drew herself up. For once, she had been content that a guest of hers was who she claimed to be. Dorothea had been vouched for by her dear friend Alaric, and he was not, she supposed, in the habit of visiting imposters on her. This facile recognition of the assumed Hollywood contingent did not, as one might expect, reassure her that they were who they claimed to be. On the contrary, they caused her to view the young lady with deep suspicion.

"I'm so glad that you're all together," Mirabel continued. "Dear Lady Constance – dear Mr. Threepwood – we have some exciting news for you all, don't we, Clarence?" Lord Emsworth looked even more inclined to sidle out of the room and make a run for it than he generally did in company, but Mirabel kept a firm grip on his arm.

"What do you think?" she said, joyously. "We're engaged to be married!"

* * *

Lord Emsworth managed, by some miracle, to give his loving siblings the slip after dinner, confusing them with the simple cunning of going nowhere near the gardens or his pigsty. Galahad, who had the advantage over his sister of being on chummy terms with the servants' hall, managed by means of a tip-off from Beech to run his elder brother to ground in one of the guest bedrooms, where he was attempting to drown his sorrows in finest tea and a copy of 'Natural Remedies for Pigs.'

Galahad gazed at Emsworth with brotherly reproachfulness. "Now, Clarence, what's all this about you losing your head and reviving the spring of your heart with young Dorothea? The child could be your granddaughter."

"Daughter," Emsworth corrected, not liking the implication that he was a doddering old fool. "And I have done no such thing. How the silly girl got it into her head that we were getting married, I don't know. I really don't recall anything of the kind."

"Ah," said Galahad, somewhat relieved. While he was all for the bloom of young love across class barriers, the idea of Emsworth with a young thing like their guest did lack a certain appeal. "But surely, Clarence, you must have said something to put it into her head. Search your mind for some little clue," he urged.

"I tell you I did not," Emsworth said irritably. "She came to admire the Empress of Blandings – charming and sensible girl, Dorothea, knows all about pigs, she says, from being raised on a farm somewhere – and I asked her to admire the curve of the second roll of fat. Next thing I know, she's caught her hand on a splinter and it was bleeding."

"And she dissolved into tears, so you took her little hand in yours and soothed it with burning kisses, I suppose."

"I did no such thing! Really, Gally, if you are going to go on like this, I shan't speak to you at all."

Galahad looked sternly upon him. "I think you would be sensible to tell all, Clarence, or else we will never be unable to tangle this knot."

"Eh? Oh, well. If you will keep your filthy imputations to yourself, Dorothea took it quite well. It reminded me of this special lotion I have – I sent away for it from a catalogue, quite the thing – positively promised to fight infection and promote healing in any way. Fifteen different herbal extracts, all patented." Emsworth's eyes were glowing with the light of a fanatic, and Galahad sighed to himself. The thing looked bad, he had to admit. It seemed that, all unwittingly, the girl had stumbled on Emsworth's greatest weakness, the desire to play mad doctor with the helpless peasants of his estate. "So I put it on her hand, and she said something about needing me to look after her, and of course I said yes, yes, to be polite – and the next thing I knew, she was talking about what kind of rings she liked. She'd said something else in between, I think, and I must have agreed, but I'm afraid I must have let my attention wander for a moment. I was wondering, you see, if the lotion was safe for pigs. Fine stuff, fine stuff."

Galahad sighed and flung himself gracefully into a chair. "Really, although it is a harsh thing to say, sometimes Connie is right about you. Well, I suppose you'll have to pay her off."

Emsworth shuddered and looked piteously at his brother, rather like a mournful sheep. "Will it mean another breach of promise suit? I can't stand another in the family – and think what Connie would have to say!"

"Well, your other choice is to marry the girl."

Emsworth's often vacant eyes grew deep and full with terror. He was only too aware that a second marriage – well, he was a man of the world, already widowed and breeding livestock, he could hold quite indelicate thoughts in his head without blushing – could result in younger sons. He thought of the younger son he already had, and his very soul shuddered at the thought. What if, when he ascended to the Pearly Gates, the recording angel took one look at him and charged him with inflicting a second Freddie on the world? He would be cast to the fiery pits, and rightly. No, he could not do such a thing.

"Gally – you have to save me!" he said, piteously. "Can it be done?"

"It can, I think," Galahad said thoughtfully. "A thought dawns on me – I can extricate you from this trap, and at the same time unite two loving hearts, and bring joy to someone to whom I would rather like to do a favour. Clarence, do you remember at school, a boy in your form called Thistleton? A bit potty, as I recall? And rather good looking?"

"Eh, what?" Emsworth, his mind relieved, had returned to his book. "Can't say I do."

"No, I suppose you don't," said Galahad.

* * *

Dinner that night was hardly the sparkling social affair that the presence of two such gifted raconteurs as Galahad Threepwood and the Earl of Ickenham should have produced.

True, Mirabel was glowing like a cross between a tropical flower and something Michelangelo, but she was a little put out. In defiance of all laws of hospitality, Emsworth was taking his meal alone in the library, and she was not sure it was in the spirit of a man newly affianced to a beautiful younmg girl.

Pongo, for his part, was never less than ornamental, but while nothing could have been more perfect than the silk tied at his neck and the subtly oiled waves of his hair, behind his false moustache his face wore a look of tragedy not unlike that of a dying duck. When his uncle had suggested they take a little turn before dinner, Pongo had replied that he was sorry, he had a previous engagement to drown himself in the duck pond. Ickenham was pleased to see his nephew at dinner and decidedly unwaterlogged, but was troubled by Pongo's tragic air. He was fond of the boy, and the pained expression on his face gave Ickenham pain. He had never quite understood why a nephew of his should be such a helpless prey to depression.

As he airily exchanged stories of Hollywood with Galahad, Ickenham's mind worked furiously over the problem of this nephew. In the normal course of things, it should not have given him a moment's worry that Pongo had lost his heart to some pretty young thing, even though Ickenham had to admit to himself that there was a possibility this one was the proverbial snake in Blanding's grass. Pongo had an open and susceptible heart and had loved many girls, but often had trouble recalling their names after they had signed on the dotted line with another man. Nor, in itself, was a mere broken engagement a thing over which to exercise much concern. His courtship with his own Jane had consisted not so much of a steady progress to the altar as a series of brief flurries of betrothal in between frequent estrangements. Ickenham firmly believed that broken engagements were not an obstacle to marriage so much as the right and proper means by which a spirited lady established her ascendancy prior to their actual union.

It was the proximity of the two things that worried him. What was poor Sally to do, if, every single time she called off arrangements and returned the ring in a girlish fit of pique, as was her natural feminine right, she was to run the risk of Pongo getting himself affianced to some silly girl? One of them was bound to say yes, sooner or later. It was a tragedy of which not to think. Ickenham resolved himself to turn that great and creative brain of his to finding some solution. And, as he sampled a delicious summer pudding, the solution occurred to him. Once the ladies had retired and port had been consumed, Ickenham returned to his room, intent on writing a telegraph that would solve all problems.

Galahad, for his part, had also been thinking too furiously to sparkle much at dinner, and he sought out his brother's betrothed in order to invite her for a moonlit walk.

Mirabel agreed readily enough. Galahad had considerable personal magnetism and, to a girl who had been privileged to hear a potted account of his memoirs, the allure of a disreputable past. She had already decided he was likely to be the most amusing company in her new home, and his company was far more attractive than that of Lady Constance, who had just been treating her future sister-in-law to her best iceberg impression.

Bats fluttered against the moonlight, as the two walked across the sweet dimness of the rose garden. They were silent for a while, until Galahad suggested they sit on a bench, and turned to MIrabel.

"I wanted you to know, dear Dorothea, that I appreciate what a noble thing you are doing, bringing sunshine into the winter of dear Clarence's life."

Mirabel's lovely eyes shone. "I am so glad you see it that way, Gally."

"I fully appreciate the depths of your sacrifice, my child. But I ask you to think well on what you are doing. My brother is elderly and has not long to live –" Mirabel dropped her gaze in pretty sorrow – "and you could not bring him happiness for long before you are cast penniless onto the open world."

"Penniless? But –" Mirabel fluttered a hand, taking in the vast estates.

"Entailed, all of it," Galahad told her, gravely. "It will pass to Lord Bosham. And he is not the kind to show loving kindness to his father's young widow."  
"Oh. My stepson? But surely -"

"He is a harsh, hard man, though he is my nephew," Galahad said sadly. "Why, did you not hear what he forced his own brother to, rather than lend him a crust?" Mirabel shook her head, her hyacinth eyes black pools of horror in the darkness. "He forces him to sell dog biscuits."

"_Dog biscuits?_ Really? But - why?"

"A cruel and vindictive mind knows no reason, dear Dorothea." Galahad sighed. "If only Clarence had no issue! Lord Ickenham is luckier than he knows. Rather than an ungrateful son, better that a sweet-natured young nephew like Reginald should take the title and lands."

"Reginald? You mean Pongo?" Mirabel bit her lip with the effort of deep thought.

"He is, of course, to be the Sixth Earl of Ickenham, and all Lord Ickenham's riches will pass to him. A beautiful estate in Hampshire, so I've been told, and some quite stunning jewellery. His wife will live a long and happy life as the Countess. Let me be frank, Dorothea – I know exactly what you are giving up. I have seen the way he looks at you, and you at him. Yet you will give it all up – the title, the riches, the lands, and of course a handsome and devoted young husband – to bring happiness to my beloved brother. You are truly an angel. But think, think on it, my dear, before it's too late!"

Mirabel climbed to her feet. "Oh, Gally! Thank you! I think I was about to make a terrible mistake."

"I think perhaps you were," Galahad said gravely, as Mirabel retreated towards the castle, intent of seeking out Pongo.

* * *

Dawn broke on Blandings like the sigh of a seraph. Rising early and taking his bath, Ickenham reflected that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. In truth, sometimes there was a glitch in his plans, but these were just the little twists that made life such a refreshing and delightful enterprise. Ickenham could have been forgiven if he had warbled like a songbird while making his ablutions, it is fortunate because that is what he, in fact, he did.

Making his way down to breakfast, he encountered Lady Constance, who seemed remarkably mellowed in her outlook. In part, this was because she had just made up her mind and handed Beech a telegraph asking dear Valerie if she knew where her delightful uncle was at the present moment. What really brought the shine to her enchanting grey eyes, however, was that on bearding her eldest brother in his bedroom, she had been informed that it was all just a misunderstanding and young Dorothea had intended to announce that she was marrying the Hon. Reginald Twistleton, not himself. Given that Constance was almost certain that the aforesaid Hon. was residing in the castle under the name of Bentley Graham, the situation did seem likely to lead to a little social awkwardness, but the knowledge that Lady Constance wasn't to have an absolute outsider foisted on her as a sister-in-law did much to oil the gears. So it was with a positively friendly smile that she encountered Ickenham at the sideboard by the kippers.

"Lady Constance!" Ickenham greeted her, with equal joviality. "Just the lady. I'm being by way of an art connoisseur, you know," he confided. "Especially busts."

"Really, Mr. Zizzbaum? I was not aware that Hollywood was known for its scholarly refinement in such things."  
"Now, that's just where you're wrong. All the big producers, they're all as good of judges of busts as any you'll know. And what's especially the rage right now, are busts of pigs."

Lady Constance did not exactly draw her skirts aside or look down on him with a threatening lorgnette, but there was that in the curl of her lip that suggested that she might, if further provoked, do so. Lady Constance was a lady who had heard and seen quite as much of pigs as she intended. "Really? What extraordinary taste."

"Extraordinary it is. And I know one sculptress who is just dying to get into the pig bust business, only it's hard to find a good enough specimen. So when I heard that his Earlship was getting married to little Dorothea I thought, well, here's a chance to do two good deeds at once and commission a bust of the Empress of Blandings for their wedding present. Nice girl, Dorothea, appreciates a pig when she sees one. So I hope you don't mind, but the little lady is coming down by the earliest train."

Lady Constance shuddered. "Am I to understand that another female is to be foisted upon me?"

"Female is right. Sweetest little lady sculptress you ever met. Her pig bust will be a hit among the wedding gifts, don't you concern yourself about that."

"But, Mr Zizzbaum, that will hardly be necessary. I am reliably informed that the betrothal is already at an end. Dorothea has had her affections engaged elsewhere, with a man of more suitable age. Your nephew, in fact – but forgive me, I am confused. I was referring to the Hon. Reginald Thistleton, nephew of the Earl of Ickenham, who you assure me is quite a stranger to you." And with that, Lady Constance swept magnificently from the room.

* * *

Pongo was pacing the rose garden in a bewildered dream, at the unconscionably early hour of ten. One moment he had been lovelorn and alone, the next he found himself betrothed to the lovely and charming Mirabel. And now – it was morning.

It was, of course, precisely what he most had wished. He was happy, terribly happy. And he was sure that he would get to know Mirabel in time. Chorus girls were lovely people, the salt of the earth. Many of his fellow Drones Club members swore by their marriage potential. Mirabel was clearly an angel. Still, even the perfect shine of his shoes could not entirely lift an almost irrational tendency to mope.

His eyes caught sight of a slight figure wending her way up the drive, and his heart leapt as if it was attempting to fling itself at the girl's feet. The image of Mirabel melted away like snow.

"Why – Sally! Whatever are you doing here, darling?"

"Oh!" The girl looked up at him with melting eyes, and flung herself at his breast. "Oh, could you ever forgive me? Please say you will!"

Pongo clenched his hands to prevent his arms folding around her. He had dreamed of this moment, of Sally contrite and begging to be forgiven, but it had dawned on him with a terrible cold rush of feeling that he had been a complete fool. It dawned on him with even more frigid clarity that Mirabel was a most unpleasant little gold digger, and that Sally was the only girl he could ever love.

"Of course I forgive you, Sally," he said with cold, manly self-control.

Sally drew back. "There's no call to say it in such a beastly unpleasant way. Here am I, willing to sign   
up again –"

"That's impossible," Pongo said coldly. "I am sorry your trip has been wasted."

"If you think I came up here to see you, Reginald Thisteton, you're wrong. I'm here to make preliminary sketches for a bust of someone called the Empress of Blandings. I had a call from an art collector named Carey Zizzbaum. But – oh, my dream rabbit, do be reasonable. I am so terribly sorry, but I know Bertie won't mind dreadfully if I give him the boot – do play up, darling." She looked up at him with sweetly limpid eyes. "When I saw you there, I knew you were the only one for me and always had been."

Pongo would have wiped away a manly tear if he had not been afraid of ruining his new gloves. "I'm sorry, Sally, but it is not to be. I have plighted my troth to another girl."

"Oh!" Sally looked stricken. "But you don't love her more than me?"

"Of course not," said Pongo wretchedly. "But what am I to do about it?"

"Tell her it's all a mistake and call it off," Sally said impatiently.

"That's quite out of the question," Pongo said stiffly.

"I don't see why. I'm willing to give Bertie the bird, an fair's fair, after all."

"A gentleman has his honour in such things, Sally."

"Oh! Oh, you are impossible!" Sally stamped a little foot, then turned on it. "I'm going to the castle, to meet Mr. Zizzbaum and talk terms. And I will never, ever speak to you again. Unless, of course, you come to my wedding."

Pongo watched her exit with a breaking heart.

* * *

It was a much sobered Earl of Ickenham who lit a pipe under the gracious, mossy walls of Blandings that evening. Sally, after a little natural confusion on finding him to be Mr. Zizzbaum, had wept her troubles out on his chest. He had been much moved. It occurred to him that, for once, his generous natured bringing of light into the world may have lit up Mirabel's world, but was a bit of a hard deal for Pongo and Sally. He sighed, and the weight of the world was in his sigh.

"Would you like to confide in me? I can't promise to solve anything – but I can give it a try," came a calm, reassuring kind of voice, and Ickenham looked up into a bright eye framed by a black-ribboned monocle. "Anything for a fellow Pelican, you know."

It was Ickenham's habit to play a lone hand in these games, but there was something so charming and easeful about Galahad that, before he knew it, Ickenham had repeated Sally's trip and confided all his troubles, only with less weeping and rather more pride in various subterfuges.

"I see, Galahad said at last. "I'm afraid, old man, I feel partly responsible. I was under the impression that it was your best wish for Pongo and Dorothea – Mirabel? – to be joined in holy matrimony."

"An expedient taradiddle," Ickenham admitted.

"So I now see. At the time I did not, and I will confess I did my best to help it along."

"It can't be helped." Ickenham was returning to his normal buoyancy. "I am sure it can be resolved."

"I, too, am sure." Galahad paused thoughtfully. "Fred – I have an idea. Leave it to me, will you just? I'm going to motor up to London. Stay at Blandings as my guest. All will be tip-top by the end of the week, I promise." He patted Ickenham reassuringly on the back.

* * *

The next afternoon, as the gathered assemblage took tea, there was a certain strain in the atmosphere. Emsworth had gratefully absented himself and Constance was in full approval of the new romantic relationships, but between Mirabel, Sally and Pongo there still existed a strained atmosphere.

Pongo sat like a statue of misery. Beside him, the young lady sculptress fixed Mirabel with a vicious glare. On meeting the young person, Sally had instantly forgiven her Pongo. The man she loved was, she told herself, after all a consummate baa-lamb, and what baa-lamb stood a chance against a man-hunting platinum blonde tiger like that? Mirabel, for her part, was exhibiting her prettiest manners for Pongo's benefit, but every now and then she cast from under sweeping golden lashes a look at her fiancé that suggested that she was wondering what she had ever done to deserve being fixed for life to a complete chump like that. All in all, despite Ickenham's best efforts, the party was yet again failing to swing. The most rattling conversation so far had been Lady Constance's "Mr Zizzbaum, sugar in your tea? No? How about you, Mr Graham?"

Galahad's cheerful "What ho, Connie? Bentley, Carey, Dorothea, how are you?" cut into the atmosphere like a carol at a funeral. He had a most attractive woman of about forty years of age on his arm, a woman with boyishly bobbed dark hair and what both Sally and Mirabel recognised as the very last word in hats. Mirabel, however, was the only one to have a faint flush creeping over her features at the sight, making her cheeks glow like rosepetals in the evening.

"Connie, allow me to introduce my very dear friend, Miss Carey Zizzbaum of Perdecto-Zizzbaum Motion Picture Studios," Galahad said cheerfully.

"A pleasure," Miss Carey Zizzbaum said, flashing a smile, as Pongo started to his feet like a frightened rabbit. Ickenham beamed graciously upon all, serenely stirring some cream into his tea.

"But..." For a moment Connie faltered, but breeding came to her rescue. The pleasure is mine, Miss Zizzbaum. Allow me to introduce the Earl of Twistleton and his nephew, Reginald Twistleton," she said, with an air of suppressed triumph.

Ickenham bowed, "An absolute pleasure, Miss Zizzbaum. I have just been telling dear Lady Constance that I am dying to meet you."

"Miss Zizzbaum – Miss Mirabel Perkins," Galahad added. Lady Constance's barely suppressed little cry of outraged triumph at the revelation of Dorothea's identity went quite unnoticed, as Miss Zizzbaum made a far louder cry.

"Oh, Gally honey, she's all you said and more!" she said, clapping her hands. Mirabel, for her part, was looking at Miss Zizzbaum in a way Ickenham rather recognised from every second time Pongo had met a new girl prior to Sally. "Can you just imagine how she'd look on a poster, draped against a tiger?"

"And this, Miss Zizzbaum, is Miss Sally Painter, my nephew Reginald's fiancée," Ickenham put in, completing the round of introductions. "Now that we all know each other, shall we sample this delicious toast?"

Miss Zizzbaum ignored him. She and Mirabel were looking at each other as if each had discovered the meaning of life in each other's eyes.

"She's the right girl to play Dolly, don't you think?" Gally asked, appraisingly, and Lady Constance shuddered visibly at the thought.

"Oh, Gally, always the joker. You know those memoirs of your would never make it past the Hay's code, you old devil." Mizz Zizzbaum clapped him companionably on the back. "But she's a star if ever I saw one. Miss Perkins, have you ever signed a contract?" Mirabel shook her head, wide-eyed. "Well, let's just take a walk, and I'll take care of you, I swear it. Of course, you are fee to leave England? No entanglements?"

Mirabel looked straight at Pongo, and her lips curved slightly as she shook her head. "None at all."

"Then let's talk business." Relinquishing Galahad's arm, Miss Zizzbaum extended hers to the blushing Mirabel, and they wandered out the French windows into the scented gardens.

* * *

"Well, that went rather well," said Galahad, leaning against the library window as he lit a rather pensive cigarette. Mirabel and Miss Zizzbaum had yet to enter the Castle again, although the hour was wearing thin, and from where he sat he could see them, sitting very close and leaning in intimate conversation. "I'd only actually been hoping to get the girl signed up to a studio contract. I have to admit that I knew Mirabel was Miss Zizzbaum's type, but I didn't dare to hope that the same would be true on the other side, if you take my meaning."

Pongo didn't. He returned to the subject which he had tracked Galahad down to pursue. "I'm awfully grateful and all that, and as is Sally, but – why did you do it?" he asked curiously.

Galahad shrugged, "The chance to unite two loving hearts – or, rather, four," he added thoughtfully, watching a dark head lean closer to a golden one. "And I suppose there was another reason. I have your uncle's happiness rather to heart."

"I don't see why, unless it's that Uncle Fred can't be trusted to look after himself," Pongo said bluntly.

Galahad smiled. "Yes, he was like that at school. Barmy, everyone said. The things he said and did..." He sighed, somewhat wistfully. "I was in a lower form, of course, and I can't say he ever noticed me. But I noticed him. And, as dear Carey says, my memoirs really wouldn't be passed under the Hays code. My sister is rather loathe to have them published at all."

Pongo stared at him, not understanding, and Galahad laughed lightly. "First love, you know, always hits hardest." He gave a look of tender sympathy to the women on the seat, then straightened. "It was a pleasure to join forces with your uncle at last, and I'm glad to bring a little light into his life. Off you go, young man. Don't keep Miss Painter waiting – it's always a mistake to let love slip by."

Pongo, still puzzled but happy, left and went to seek out his sweetheart. He was stopped by his Uncle Fred.

"It's time for me to say an uncle's farewell. I've been recalled to headquarters, my boy," he said cheerfully. "Your sister Valerie has been in touch with Jane, and it's to Hampshire I go."

"You don't seem very sorry to go." Pongo felt a little sorry himself, if the truth was to be told. His heart was full of sweetness and light, and he quite felt up to the company of a spritely old gentleman who was, after all, his favourite uncle.

"I am not. You will find that being away from your wife too long is something to bring down the spirits, my boy. And my spirits are high. After all, I did promise little Mirabel that she would go to Hollywood!"

And the Earl of Ickenham, his eyes twinkling, left to catch his train.


End file.
